


The Last Night

by AdelaCathcart



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst and Romance, Beautiful Golden Fools, F/M, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Period Sex, Pre-Canon, Role Reversal, Sibling Incest, consensual hitting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:26:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27069346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdelaCathcart/pseuds/AdelaCathcart
Summary: He wishes he could hide his unhappiness but he’s never been able to lie to her. Even if he could fix his sorry expression she’ll winkle it out from his touch. Sometimes she spots lies in him that he didn’t know were there, and she’ll cajole him into admitting to something awful, or punish him cruelly for telling the innocent truth. He’ll swear to whatever facts she chooses: her pleasure is the only law he lives by.[Another "I fucked Jaime on the morning of my wedding" fic, because I've never come across one that told it the way I imagined it.]
Relationships: Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister
Comments: 7
Kudos: 29





	The Last Night

**Author's Note:**

> This is my very first ASoIaF fic, I hope you enjoyed it! I've had it in my mind for a long time but only recently managed to write it down. Please let me know what you think in the comments, I love to hear from you! And thank you for reading. <3
> 
> "So, to pass upon this tale, Sir Launcelot went unto bed with the queen, and he took no force of his hurt hand, but took his pleasance and his liking until it was in the dawning of the day; and wit ye well he slept not but watched, and when he saw his time that he might tarry no longer he took his leave." — _Le Morte d'Arthur_

He finds she’s bleeding, but he eats her anyway. It’s far from the first time. There are no firsts to be had between them, not anymore, not for years. She’s so pleased to discover the stain on his lips it’s as if she contrived to turn the moon herself—if any woman could, he thinks, it’s her—wiping his chin with his shirt, whining under her breath “ah, your highness, you’ve taken my maidenhood,” grinning like a jackal. She’ll give a more convincing performance tonight, of course, not that Robert’s likely to require one.

She expects him to laugh along but it feels like being kicked in a bruise, and he wouldn’t put that past her, either, if he disappoints her. If it weren’t pitch-dark in her chamber she could find enough bruises to choose from. He’s been training relentlessly, anything to stave off the howling chasm that wants to open in her place by his side, though to his disgust as much as his pride not one of his friends is any match for him these days. He looks up at his only mirror and wishes she’d break his nose.

“Jaime, be happy for me! Tonight I’ll be a queen.”

 _You’ve always been a queen_ , he thinks.

He wishes he could hide his unhappiness but he’s never been able to lie to her. Even if he could fix his sorry expression she’ll winkle it out from his touch. Sometimes she spots lies in him that he didn’t know were there, and she’ll cajole him into admitting to something awful, or punish him cruelly for telling the innocent truth. He’ll swear to whatever facts she chooses: her pleasure is the only law he lives by.

Before she can accuse him of mutiny he pulls the bloodstained shirt over his head, spreading it under her, and smothers his frown between her legs. She moves with him so beautifully, his mouth fits her so well, if he does this long enough he can forget that they were ever split in two. She’s saying something but it’s muffled by her thighs clamped around his ears, which is good because he doesn’t much care to hear it, but then she parts her knees a little and reaches down to give his forehead a shove.

“Jaime, stop it, that’s enough, I want to fuck…”

When they first started doing this she was luscious with baby fat, her cunt as plump and downy as a baby chick, but now she’s a young woman, long and lithe, with plenty of places for him to grab and hold her. He grasps her firmly by the hips before she can squirm up the bed, and her struggle to get out of his grip only makes her release a little blurt of iron-scented slime which he sucks up, smiling. Digging his fingers into her sides to keep her in place, he takes her clitoris between his lips, and then nods slowly so she feels his teeth behind them.

“Stop fighting or I’ll bite you,” he tells her.

“You wouldn’t.”

“Want to try and find out?”

In response she thrashes suddenly, bucking her pubic bone into his upper lip so hard that bright pain explodes across his nose and teeth, and his sadness evaporates like shadows fleeing from a candle’s flame. He touches his mouth to see if he’s bleeding but of course there’s no way to be sure whether the blood on his face is from his mouth or her cunt, and either way it’s all the same blood. Watching him, she smirks.

“I said I want you to fuck me,” she reminds him sternly.

“Make me,” he shrugs, then nuzzles his way back between her thighs and sucks her hard. She stifles a groan of pain and slaps him on the side of the head. He shoves his fingers in her, licking with the soft flat of his tongue until she sighs and lets herself enjoy it. Thinking he’s bested her, he can’t suppress his chuckle, and she immediately rains blows on the top of his head. Still holding her hip, he sits up and looks into the pale moon of her face. Her chin juts out defiantly.

“Have you forgotten that I taught you how to throw a punch,” he asks her, “or are you grown too much a lady since I saw you last to try?”

“It was I taught _you_ , as I recall, brother,” she says, and proves it.

The blow almost knocks him flat: her middle knuckle connects squarely with his suborbital arch and his stomach lurches; he sees stars. Giddily he prays to the Warrior, _Let it bruise—if I must stand by silent while another man weds her, at least allow me to wear this token of her favor to the feast_. Before he can recover she’s on top of him.

“You think I can’t make you fuck me?” she exults, kneeling on his upper arms so her wet cunt mashes blood into his chest hair, and her weight cuts off his circulation, making his palms tingle. She holds his chin and turns him to look at her. “I’ll take you like a maiden on her wedding night.”

“Do it, then.”

“Shut up, you sniveling bitch.” She hits him across the mouth with the back of her hand and all he can do is blink up at her adoringly while she kisses his smarting face, pinning his wrists to his sides. “Skinny little thing, aren’t you?” she remarks coldly, her voice gruff and low. “Your father swears you’ll bear me strong sons but I’m not so sure.”

His twin sits atop him with an appraising look, as if his body weren’t as familiar to her as her own. “Let’s have a look at you, then. Teats too small, but pretty enough,” she says with a sneer, tugging his nipples viciously in her teeth. “Nice round arse,” she continues, pinching the meat of his thigh so hard it cramps. “You’ll do well enough, I suppose. It’s too late to send you back.” At last she lowers herself onto him with a deep groan of satisfaction.

Her hands are on his chest for balance, eyes closed and head thrown back, lost in her own pleasure. Since childhood he’s known himself for a soldier, so he’s no stranger to his body being treated as the means to someone else's end, but something about her assessment is uniquely violating, and he loves her when she takes more than she should. He trembles, very close to losing control.

“Cersei, do you love me?”

“Why ask me that? You already know the answer,” she says, riding him indifferently.

“Because I want to hear you say it. Say you love me,” he insists.

Finally she opens her eyes, and grins at him murderously. “Make me,” she says.

Jaime is intimately aware of every difference between his body and his sister’s—after all, there are so few differences, and so many similarities—and though he thinks he might have more self-control than other boys his age he also knows he can’t take being fucked like this for long. He can’t torture her the way she does him, by withholding. His hands wander over her body and come to rest at the tops of her thighs, stroking her idly at the place where their bodies join. She responds with a little growl of pleasure.

“Gods—Cersei, I’m going to…”

She fucks him harder, hurrying him along, and when he groans “now, now,” she slips off of him and lightning-fast his cock is in her throat, and she’s gulping down his seed the same second he spurts it, it never even touches open air, and for a moment all he knows is that his fluids are not his or hers but theirs and everything is conjunction.

Her face is blood-smeared now, too, and she wipes her lips on her wrist and then kisses him so he tastes himself in her mouth. He winds his hands in her hair, feels her fingertips trace his tender, swelling cheekbone, holds her close in the darkness and smells her smell, the smell he knows best, the one he dreams of, a smell so ancient in his memory it has never needed a name.

He holds her breast in his hand, squeezing gently, and feels the weight of it, tugging the nipple lightly between his fingers. She sighs, neither eager nor resisting, but her arm cradles his head and its hand plays with his hair while he catches his breath.

“Today’s my wedding day,” she reminds him. “Soon the ladies of my husband’s house will come to bathe and dress me. You’ll be killed if they catch you here.” _Not ‘we,’ but ‘you,’_ he thinks. _How easily she would betray me to save herself._

He leans over her, dipping his head between her breasts. “Not yet,” he mumbles into her skin. “It’s not your wedding day ’til dawn. Let me stay ’til then.”

“You’ll fall asleep.”

“Not as long as I keep busy,” he insists, taking soft little sucks at her nipple, and she laughs, incredulous, because she doesn’t realize how many vigils knights are trained to endure. He stood in the sept for three days before his induction to the Kingsguard, woozy on his feet, smoke stinging his eyes, his prayers incoherent on his tongue. With her tits in his mouth to keep him occupied he’s sure he could stay up for a week. He laces his fingers through hers before she can push him away.

“ _I’ll_ fall asleep.”

“I don’t care. I like you when you’re asleep. Say you love me.”

She flops back, snoring theatrically, so he ignores her, focusing on his lips and his hands, how good it feels when they’re pressed to her skin. It may well be the last time he’ll ever get to touch her this way. He doesn’t know if he’s saying goodbye. In this moment he is unable to imagine a world where Cersei’s nipple doesn’t roll under his thumb, where his upper lip doesn’t taste like blood and Cersei’s cunt. He thinks of men he’s known who lost limbs in battle, that pathetic grief they felt for their missing arms and legs, and the pain they claimed to have in their absent parts. For a visible wound there are unguents, poultices, milk of the poppy for pain, but there is no cure for the wound in a man’s soul. He’s been separated from his twin before and always found it intolerable. Tomorrow the other half of Jaime’s body will belong to Robert Baratheon, and every time he uses it Jaime will hurt. He kisses her mouth and finds her more receptive than expected.

Because they’ve always caught each other’s feelings like a fever, in a husky voice not unlike his own she speaks his fears: “We can never do this again.”

At puberty the hair on his arms grew coarse and wiry, but hers is still as fine as spider silk. He kisses her semen-crusted wrist, their intertwined fingers, her lovely knuckles which blackened his eye. “I don’t care if this is the last time,” he tells her. The sudden intensity of emotion makes the words stick in his throat, and tears spring to his eyes as he says them. “For as long as I live, I’ll never love anyonebut you.”

In response, she grabs his cock, pulling on it with the unceremoniousness of ownership. Obediently it stiffens in her hand. He hears the catch in her breath that means a smile, and she shrugs off his embrace and straddles his lap again.

“I can’t say the same,” she says mockingly, easing him back inside her.

“You don’t have to go through with it, you know. It’s not too late. We can still run away from here. You could marry me.”

“Don’t be a fool.”

“We’d be happy. You know we would. We don’t need anyone else.”

“I want to be queen,” she says simply. He understands this well, understands what it means to her. They could spend a lifetime absorbed in one another’s bodies, and discover the end of love and the end of sex, but there is no end to the thing she wants most of all, to power. His sister will never choose her twin over her crown. Tears and threats and pleas will only anger her, and spoil this last night they have together, if that's what it is. Jaime sighs heavily, relenting, and she begins to fuck him. In the darkness it’s not so hard to imagine she’s gone and he’s fucking her ghost, as he has so often in dreams when he and she were apart. As he will, it seems, from this night on.

“When I’m queen I can do whatever I want,” Cersei continues dreamily. Jaime shrugs, because for him the long years of her reign look like a prison term. She’s plainly awaiting a response. He’s at a loss, and he can’t hide his face in her cunt now.

“Yes,” he finally says without enthusiasm.

“You idiot,” she groans. She pinches his arm very hard and he grunts with pain. “A queen can take a lover if she wants to.”

“It’s treason, for a knight to lie with a queen.”

“Treason will be whatever I say it is,” she informs him. “It will be treason for you to disobey me, too.”

He sits up, catching her in his arms as he plants his feet firmly on the floor. He grabs her head in both hands and kisses her mouth, her eyes, her hair, her shoulders, and she laughs with pleasure at his eagerness. “I would never, never, never, never,” he mumbles.

“Good,” she says, and bites his cheek. In response he only pulls her closer, holding her steady to help her fuck him as she tucks her legs around his hips. “Keep doing that… No, wait.” She leans back, twisting in his arms until she’s facing away from him, feet tucked behind his calves so that her knees are held apart by his. She has less freedom of movement this way, but she fucks him with what little she has, and her breasts fill his hands, and he leans his damp forehead into the crook of her shoulder. He hears a growl of frustration deep in her throat as she squirms on him, because in this position, her cunt stuffed with his cock and legs spread wide to the dark room, her aching clitoris contacts nothing but empty air. He chuckles softly into her neck and awaits his orders. “Touch me, make me spend,” she complains, tugging at his hands.

“Yes, my lady.”

She makes a fist in his hair. “Your queen,” she says.

“My queen.”

“Your sister.”

“My sister.” His hand slips down her belly and between her legs, lightly tracing her cunt which is sticky with drying blood, admiring the way her lips stretch taut around his shaft. “My love.” His fingers move over the place where they join, again and again, unable to discern where he ends and she begins.

“Jaime,” she says warningly.

He soaks his salty fingers in his mouth, and spreads the moisture over her waiting cunt. “Cersei,” he says like a prayer.

It’s one of their oldest games, as natural to him as any other form of masturbation, playing with the cunt between his thighs and savoring the little jolts of pleasure that shoot through him in response to his touch. Her back is pressed so tight against his chest that they breathe in unison, and the spasms of her climax trigger his own, which he had forgotten to notice building, or perhaps he’s feeling the sensations of her body, as he's certain he once did in the womb.

“Jaime, Jaime,” she moans softly as she melts over him. “I love you. I love you.”

“I love you,” he swears, spilling into her, his lips on the back of her neck.

He lays them down together, still joined, and she falls asleep with his cock inside her, muscles trembling around him from time to time as if to make sure he’s still there. Once she’s unconscious he gropes for his ruined shirt and wads it up to catch the blood and semen that dribble out of her along with his flaccid cock. Then he spreads it flat on the rushes to dry, and creeps back into his sister’s bed.

True to his word he stays awake all night, sitting upright with one arm curled around her, watching the sky closely for the first signs of dawn. Cersei begins to snore softly. At first the familiar sound it fills him with warm affection, which slowly becomes mild irritation, and then he gently pinches her nose closed until she coughs, smacks her lips, and quiets. Her red mouth hangs just slightly open, revealing her wet tongue and sharp white teeth, and her golden hair lies tumbled like a cloud around her face, and Jaime has never seen anything more beautiful in his life. He wonders why hasn’t noticed the colors of her before now. Then he realizes the room has gotten lighter.

The sky above King’s Landing is no longer black but deep blue. Stealthy as a thief, which he is, Jaime pries himself from his sister’s arms. He pulls his blotchy shirt over his head: it's still damp but not soaking. Then he laces his breeches and his shoes, and shrugs on his jerkin. He peers under the door, holds his breath and listens, and satisfied her guards are asleep at their posts, he delicately lifts the latch and skips lightly down the stairwell, and the holdfast slowly floods with pinkish light.

When Cersei awakens an hour later, it’s to half a dozen Baratheon girls squealing at the sight of her bloodstained face. _This is my life from now on,_ she thinks, annoyed but not despairing. She feels in every way equal to the challenge. “I must have had a nosebleed during the night,” she exclaims, her eyes wide and innocent. “That happens sometimes, when I’m very excited.”

They’re so stupid every one of them believes her.


End file.
